Have you ever noticed how unnerving a pause can feel?
Or how, when boredom arrives, something inside you becomes restless—
a voice whispering you should be doing more, or you aren’t doing enough?
We live in a world that has normalized urgency.
The need to grind.
The pressure to produce output after output after output.
The belief that if we stop moving—even briefly—we’ll fall behind.
Instant gratification feeds this rhythm.
Distraction becomes pleasure.
Doom-scrolling turns into hours lost without noticing.
But have you ever stopped to ask why?
What is it about stillness that feels so uncomfortable?
I believe stillness calls us inward.
It asks us to reflect, to breathe, to feel.
And I believe that real peace—real presence—can only be accessed there.
In stillness, we reconnect with our higher self.
With God.
With the universe.
With whatever name you give to the sacred.
I believe that only when we fall in love with boredom do we truly understand divine love.
Think about it:
How hard is it to catch a moving target?
And how easy is it once it stops?
If we are always rushing, always grinding, always chasing the next thing—
how can we expect to recognize a love that is restful, peaceful, and whole?
In my book, I reflect on the biblical story of Adam and Eve.
God created Eve from Adam’s rib while he was asleep.
What if that detail matters?
What if that sleep symbolizes peace—
a moment when striving ends and trust takes over?
What if divine love arrives not when we’re searching,
but when we are so settled that we can finally rest?
Growing up, I struggled deeply with insomnia.
There were weeks where I slept only a handful of hours.
I won’t go into the full journey here,
but that experience reshaped how I understand love, boredom, safety, and peace.
I see it clearly now:
my body, soul, and spirit didn’t feel safe enough to sleep.
Sleep has become a symbol of peace for me—
a state reached when things inside finally settle.
My mom used to say I “couldn’t quiet my brain,”
that it was always working.
But the truth is more tender than that.
I didn’t feel safe enough—consciously or unconsciously—to rest.
And what if that’s why we grind?
Valentine’s Day
This Valentine’s Day, I’m learning that love doesn’t always feel electric.
Sometimes it feels like rest.
Sometimes it feels like quiet.
Sometimes it feels like nothing pulling at you at all.
For a long time, I thought that meant something was missing.
Now I understand—it means my body feels safe.
Maybe love feels boring at first
because the nervous system is no longer on alert.
Divine love doesn’t rush you.
It doesn’t pull you forward.
It meets you where you are
and stays long enough for you to rest.
If today feels still,
if there’s no urgency to be elsewhere,
maybe nothing is missing.
Maybe this is love.
